Darius the Great Deserves Better - Adib Khorram Page 0,1

and soft, and he let them linger against mine. But then I made the mistake of sighing, which blew a noxious cloud of onion breath into his mouth.

He broke the kiss and giggled.

I panicked at first—I thought I had messed everything up—but he smiled at me. He squeezed my hand and said, “That was good. Even with the onions. Can we do it again?”

So we did, and the kissing got even better once we started using our tongues.

But my favorite part was the way Landon looked at me after and said, “You’re beautiful, you know.”

No one had ever called me beautiful before.

“You’re beautiful too.”

* * *

I’d gotten better about food choices since then. And keeping breath mints in my messenger bag.

“Come on. The streetcar should be here.”

But then, as we turned the corner, my stomach dropped.

Chip Cusumano and Trent Bolger were walking down the street, jostling each other and laughing about something.

Cyprian Cusumano was the strangest guy I knew. He used to be kind of mean to me, but ever since the end of sophomore year, he’d turned around and been nicer.

We’d actually become friends.

I mean, it helped that we both played on the Chapel Hill High School varsity men’s soccer team (Go Chargers!). It was the first year on the team for both of us—Chip used to play football in the fall—but we’d both managed to get spots on the varsity squad.

Trent Bolger, on the other hand, was the meanest guy I knew. He’d been picking on me since elementary school.

And yet for some strange reason—some Byzantine logic that defied explanation—Chip and Trent were best friends.

Landon must have noticed it when my shoulders hunched up, because his step faltered. Which is exactly when Chip looked up from his phone and caught my eye.

He looked from me to Landon, and then down at our linked hands, and then back to me.

Chip already knew I was gay—the whole team knew, since I told them at one of our team-building things when training started over the summer—but I was pretty sure Trent did not.

In fact, I was certain Trent did not, because when he saw me and Landon, he looked like Christmas had come early.

“You know those guys?” Landon asked.

“Yeah. From school. I play with the taller one.”

Chip had grown at least an inch over the summer. He was almost as tall as me now, and I had plateaued at six three over the summer.

I kind of hoped I would hit six four eventually.

“Hey, Darius.” Chip grinned at me. Cyprian Cusumano was one of those guys who always seemed to be grinning. He wore a pair of black Adidas joggers—the same kind I wore, with the white stripes down the sides and the tapered calves—and a plain white V-neck T-shirt.

“Hey, Chip.”

“Nice haircut.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Chip always had nice haircuts. He was a Level Eight Influencer at Chapel Hill High School: Whatever haircut he got, about half the guys in our class ended up doing some variation of it. Now that he was doing the Standard Soccer Team Fade, though, I wasn’t sure what everyone else would do.

“Oh. Chip, this is my—”

The thing is, Landon and I hadn’t talked about whether we were officially boyfriends. Even if it felt like we kind of were.

How did you ask a guy if you were officially boyfriends?

“This is Landon. Landon, Chip. And that’s Trent.”

Trent was hanging back, playing with his phone. He wore a crimson sweatshirt that read PROPERTY OF CHHS VARSITY FOOTBALL—he’d finally made the varsity team this year, as a something-back—and a pair of black swishy shorts.

Chip was still grinning, but he looked Landon up and down. Almost like he was judging him. “Nice to meet you.” He held out his fist.

Landon blinked for a second and then bumped his own with Chip’s.

It was the most awkward fist bump in the history of creation.

“Well,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. “We’ve gotta catch the streetcar. See you later?”

Chip bumped fists with me too. “Yeah. See you.”

I stepped to the side so he and Trent could make it past us and tightened my grip on Landon’s hand.

“Later, Dairy Queen,” Trent said.

Great.

ZERO POINT SIX EIGHT SECONDS

Rose City Teas was in the Northwest District, a couple stops down the streetcar line from Mikaela’s salon. It was a brick building with ivy growing up one side, and a little wooden sign hanging over the door. Big windows made up one wall, with the shades half-drawn against the afternoon sun. In the corner, shelves of tea tins lined one wall,